


St. Sebastian

by OldShrewsburyian



Series: Saints for Unbelievers [2]
Category: Inspector Morse & Related Fandoms, Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: And violence, But also, Episode: s03e03 Deceived by Flight, Gen, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, and a gay bookshop, mozart - Freeform, plato - Freeform, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 12:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11357346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: I've always been fascinated by Morse's reaction to the petrol bombing of the bookshop inDeceived by Flight, so this is a prequel (of sorts) to that, set in the early '80s.





	St. Sebastian

He curls around himself, trying to be grateful his assailants are drunk. Their insults are slurred, now, lost amid laughter. 

“Nancy-boy!” Another kick finds his ribs.

“Queer!” He tastes blood.

“Police!” He has never before been merely glad to hear that cry. “Stop! Police!” The shout is hoarse, a little breathless now as the pounding footsteps draw closer. His tormentors are gone before the personification of the law arrives, and he cannot be entirely sorry.

“ ’S all right,” says a warm baritone, sounding very far away. “You’re all right. May I have a look?” His own breathing is ragged, deafeningly loud; his heartbeat is painful in his chest. He should take his arms from around his head. He should obey the soft command that is phrased like a request.

“All right,” says the voice again. He finds it strangely comforting to hear that the policeman is out of breath too. “I’d offer to see you home, if I knew where that was.”

“Here,” he chokes out. 

“Ah.” There’s a pause. He relaxes sufficiently to open his eyes, and is surprised to see, not a constable’s boots, but a pair of brogues, well made and rather indifferently polished. 

“C-coat pocket,” he manages.

“Right.” The man’s large hands are gentle, managing to make minimal contact with tender flesh. Still he flinches. The policeman makes no comment, nor does he speak again as he employs the latch key.

“Flat above the shop, I see,” says the man conversationally. “Do you think you can stand up?”

He puts out a hand, expecting to be hauled to his feet, expecting pain. “It’ll be easier this way,” says the policeman, and takes him under the shoulders. He cries out — but he finds himself standing, albeit on shaky limbs, his hands trembling on the policeman’s reassuringly solid shoulders. The suit, too, is well-made.

“You haven’t dislocated anything,” his somewhat unlikely rescuer informs him. He blinks, and looks up to meet a pair of astonishingly blue eyes. 

“You don’t look like a policeman,” he says inanely.

“So I am often told.” The wry amusement only appears for a moment. “We should get inside,” says the man, “in case they decide to come back.” When he shudders, the policeman adds: “I can arrange to have a guard put on your door.”

“Thanks.” He turns to get his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders. His left knee will bruise badly, by the feel of it, but nothing appears to be sprained. “M’ name’s Thomas.”

“Under different circumstances,” says his rescuer, locking the door behind them, “I’d say it was a pleasure. Morse.

“I don’t suppose,” continues Morse (if Thomas has heard correctly; could it be, more plausibly, Marcus?) “that you’d like to tell me what it was all about?”

In an instant his guard is up again. “They’d had one too many.”

The policeman grunts. “So have I.”

“A few too many.” They proceed up several more stairs in silence.

“I take it you’ve no wish to press charges.”

Thomas shakes his head, and regrets the movement immediately. His muscles seem to be stiffening by the second.

“Nearly there now,” says Morse. “Bedroom?”

“To the right.” A bubble of laughter rises in his throat. A broad-shouldered, blue-eyed man asking for his bedroom — under these circumstances! He can imagine Frank’s incredulous teasing over the inventory in the morning. If he can get down the stairs. He misses his footing, and stumbles against the policeman.

“All right,” says the man soothingly. It occurs to Thomas that the man is strangely inarticulate… or more drunk than he had let on.

“I thought policemen weren’t supposed to drink on duty.” 

“I’m not on duty.”

“Oh," says Thomas, blankly. “But you…”

“I didn’t think they were likely to ask for my identification,” says Morse drily. “Here — you can sit down here.” Thomas waits for an _Easy does it_ or perhaps another _All right_ but the policeman sees him settled on the edge of the bed in silence. He is vaguely conscious of pillows being placed behind him, with inelegant efficiency. He is suddenly and inordinately tired.

“Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Not sure I have one.” He blinks down at the man, now visible only as a head of somewhat untidy iron-grey hair. Surprisingly, he is taking off Thomas’ shoes.

“There’ll be one in the bookstore.” Morse meets his eyes. “You’re legally required to have one.”

“Oh. That’s… Frank takes care of that. Stock room, maybe?”

“Right.” The policeman is ungainly in rising to his feet. 

“It’s — it’s not your sort of bookshop.” Thomas feels a desperate need to forewarn the man.

“Oh?”

“It’s… smut,” Thomas says weakly.

Morse grins. “Definitely my sort of bookshop.” Thomas doesn’t have the heart to contradict him. The policeman frowns slightly, looking down at him. “You should probably be in hospital.” Thomas opens his mouth to protest. “Don’t worry; I hate the places too. I don’t think you’re concussed, but, er… recite the kings and queens of England or something while I’m gone, will you?”

Thomas makes a conscientious effort not to doze as he listens to Morse’s step below. The man sings under his breath as he searches: “Deh, vieni alla finestra, o mio tesoro! Deh, vieni a consolar il pianto mio.” The Mozartean phrases are interrupted as he opens cupboards. “Se neghi a me di dar… qualche ristoro…” Into the stockroom… “Davanti agli occhi tuoi morir vogl’io!” Back into the shop… “Tu ch'hai la bocca dolce più del miele, tu che il zucchero porti in mezzo al core!” He ascends the stairs at a near-trot. “Non esser, gioia mia, con me crudele! Lasciati almen veder, mio bell’amore!” He is humming the lute part as he enters the bedroom.

“Eureka!” says Morse cheerfully.

“Richard III,” returns Thomas.

“What?”

“Richard III, Henry VII, Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary I… do we count Jane Grey?”

“Ha! Very good.” Thomas has unbuttoned his own shirt; Morse gets it off his shoulders. 

“More anarchism than smut,” remarks Morse mildly, as he goes to work with iodine. Thomas is too tired to flinch, too tired even to worry much. “I was very disappointed.”

“I thought…”

“I know you did. But _de gustibus_ …” Thomas smiles to himself. _Of course he knows Latin_. “Anyway,” continues Morse, and his tone is still deceptively mild, “it’s not my business in any case, is it?” 

Thomas starts to shrug, then thinks better of it. “People find… excuses,” he says. “Last month the council fined us for a burnt-out lightbulb.”

“Ah.”

“We keep a pot of paint to cover up slogans.” Thomas bites off the end of the sentence. This dangerously confessional mood, he supposes, must be a result of shock.

“The police…” begins the representative of that force.

“Take a _remarkably_ long time to get round. The stone-chuckers and slogan-painters are always safely away.”

“Ah,” says Morse again. There is a silence. “It might help,” says Morse slowly, “if you removed some of the more, er, inflammatory materials from the window…”

“We shouldn’t _have_ to!” Thomas is surprised by the anger in his own voice.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” says Morse firmly. “And some aspirin. You’ll still feel like hell in the morning.”

In the policeman’s absence, Thomas removes his trousers; he decides against the odyssey to the chest of drawers for a set of pajamas, and settles for a propriety-preserving sheet.

“I’ll leave the first aid kit up here,” says Morse, setting the tooth mug and the aspirin on the bedside table.

“But you said that Health and Safety…”

“Bother Health and Safety!”

“Right,” says Thomas. “Thank you.” 

The policeman shrugs awkwardly, his hands in his pockets. “I’ll put your keys through the letterbox on my way out.”

“Right,” says Thomas again. “Thanks…” He feels keenly the inadequacy of his response. “Morse?” The policeman turns on the threshold. 

“If,” says Thomas, “if you’ve any suggestions about replacements for the more radical texts in the window…”

Morse smiles. “Plato’s _Symposium_ ,” he says, with surprising promptness. “I think you’ll find it of interest; it’s about divine and human love.”

“Oh,” says Thomas, nonplussed.

“And,” continues Morse with relish, “it contains some very vivid discussions of the sexual preferences of assorted Greek heroes, as well as the particular pleasures of… well.” He breaks off with a mild cough. “Phaedrus’ speech, I think.”

“Thank you,” says Thomas, with as much warmth as he can muster.

“Good night then,” says Morse.

**Author's Note:**

> I like Thomas, and hope you'll feel free to imagine that he survives the bookshop bombing, possibly having moved to London (or just a bigger flat) with a nice boyfriend.


End file.
